


Laundry Day

by slasher48



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, Harvard Era, M/M, Makeup Sex, Spanking, Teasing, clothes-sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slasher48/pseuds/slasher48
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eduardo breaks up with Mark...for what though? Eduardo can't remember--not with Mark wearing his underwear.</p><p>Fucking laundry day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [casey_sms (shinygreenwords)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinygreenwords/gifts).



It's laundry day in Kirkland.

Eduardo didn't actually walk in knowing this—though he usually would because, well, he does it for Mark and Dustin all the time, but it's kind of obvious.

Because, well, no one has any fucking clothes on. 

Dustin is sitting in the Superman boxers his dad sent him for Christmas, with the big fucking  _S_  on his crotch, and Chris is sitting in the plainest pair of efficient and starched tightie-whiteys, and Mark.

Mark is making Eduardo feel like the biggest idiot in the world, because how. in the. hell. had he broken up with  _that_?

Mark's ass in Eduardo's briefs—they're blue and silky and so obviously his that he's sure Mark knows, even though he clearly doesn't care—is something else. Something Eduardo must have been crazy to walk away from. 

Something that may or may not be making him hard in his perfectly pressed trousers. Thank God he hadn't worn jeans today; though Saturdays are usually the only time he ever does. 

Mark looks up at him, his mouth poised around the first syllable of Eduardo's nickname, and Eduardo wants his name on that mouth so bad,  _so_  fucking bad, but he doesn't know if he can take that in addition to Mark half-naked in his underwear,  _his_ , so he cuts him off.

"Wa—"

"You guys should do laundry more often." 

"Fuck you, Eduardo, the goddamn machines are broken; they have all these stupid incompetents down in the basement fixing them. Been six hours and not a second of progress." Dustin growls at him, but it's not like he gives a shit. He continues to play Halo or code or eat Mark's ramen whether or not he's functionally dressed: Eduardo has seen him do it.

Chris offers something vaguely assenting from the couch where he's studying in his boxers, and Eduardo might have examined a little further how um,  _Abercrombie and Fitch_  Chris looks, gorgeous really, but Mark chooses to turn around then, and there's really nothing like the sight of Mark's ample cock caught under the tight satin of Eduardo's motherfucking underwear, so fuck Chris.

Eduardo swears vividly to himself under his breath, thankful that nobody in this room actually  _understands_ Portuguese (no matter how many times they make him speak it so they can  _learn_ it, yeah right), trying to remember what made him walk out last Friday, trying desperately to recall his anger and hurt. What had Mark done? It's impossible to think about with him right  _there_ , in _that_.

"Wardo," Mark actually manages to say this time, and he's no fool, socially inept or not, he knows. Eduardo swallows as he sees the smug tilt of Mark's lips, more and more prominent the longer Eduardo fidgets in the doorway, his eyes alternately fixated on and averted from the familiar bump under blue briefs. Mark probably wore them on purpose to make Eduardo forget he—

He—

Shit, what did he do? It was mean, Eduardo remembers that much, and Chris agreed that it was better he got out of this shitstorm of a relationship after the story was told, he knows that too. But what was it? 

Fuck, does it really matter enough that he isn't allowed to be dignified about it and still get Mark out of his underwear and flat on his back on the bed so very, very, excruciatingly near to them?

Eduardo doesn't think so. He's pretty sure it's probably par for the course with Mark, anyway, the meanness, the blunt bullshit that Mark spews when he's well—drunk, happy, angry, upset, annoyed, frustrated. Any time, actually.

So it's allowable, that he walks over to Mark and tugs him out of the chair and shoves him through his bedroom doorway, right?

Eduardo thinks so.

Fuck, at least he hopes so, because Dustin's face is starting to get all knowing and  _you're so obvious Wardo_  is written in the glances he keeps throwing toward where Eduardo is standing, and Chris, focused or not, is lifting an eyebrow higher and higher when Eduardo still doesn't move (for fear of mauling Mark like he did the last time they broke up and Mark did something—anything—and Eduardo suddenly needed to touch him more than he needed to breathe, and definitely more than he needed an apology).

"You can sit down, Wardo. You look kind of ridiculous where you are."

Mark's tone is arrogant and secretive—sharing with the entire dorm that he's well aware of Eduardo's struggle, and Eduardo wishes so badly that it didn't turn him on, because arrogance is supposed to—well, not do that, right? It isn't supposed to make Eduardo want to grab and stroke and kiss Mark until all his confidence is gone and he's just  _needy_ , whimpering and begging and clutching at Eduardo's body so he stays and keeps on.

It does. And the way Mark shifts the next moment, leaning back against his computer chair so his pasty chest and sizable bulge are displayed to perfection (the kind that tortures Eduardo a fair amount more than before), it makes following up on that desire almost painfully necessary.

Fucking laundry day.

Eduardo's across the room at least half a minute faster than he'd usually walk and wrapping a hand around Mark's neck, possessive and urgent, before he's quite weighed up what might happen completely. Mark stumbles, he yanks him up so fast, and doesn't really get a chance to regain his footing before Eduardo shoves him with the hand on his neck into his bedroom. The door smacks shut so hard the computer wiggles on the desk and Mark ends up face-first in his comforter, his ass more delectable facing upward than Eduardo can stand.

"You're wearing my underwear, Mark.  _Mine_."

"I'm aware, Wardo. I don't buy anything this ridiculous for myself."

Eduardo growls and slaps both hands down on Mark's ass in his briefs, listening to the resulting yelp for a second with a satisfied smile before snapping the waistband to make it louder.

"I'm pretty sure when we broke up you were supposed to tell me I left my underwear here."

"Why would I do that? I knew you'd just be back anyw— fuck,  _ow_!"

Eduardo may possibly just have spanked Mark, but the way Mark writhes isn't getting himself away, it's  _dealing_  with what he feels when Eduardo touches him like that—and that particular squirm Eduardo is very acquainted with—so he thinks it's not outlawed here, at least, and Mark might even like it.

"Because you're so _fucking_ irresistible, asshole," Eduardo says it sarcastically, but the way he runs his hands everywhere over Mark's body belies every word.

Mark groans into the bed and grinds against his own blanket a couple of times, and of _course_ he looked so unbelievable in those underwear. He's probably hard. Eduardo crawls onto the bed to straddle Mark and burrow his hand beneath that prone, pale form to check for sure, and yes, he's stiff and wet and Eduardo's body shivers, finding such irrefutable proof that Mark wants him no matter what happened last Friday.

Mark whimpers, loudly, when Eduardo strokes him once, and he wonders if Mark's missed the way they fuck as much as he has this week; if Mark's hated jerking off as badly as Eduardo has. He strokes again like he's asking the question with his fingers, and the sound Mark makes is a yes if he's ever heard one.

"Mmm, I think you were just  _hoping_  I'd be back,  _querido_ ," he whispers, the endearment so easy on his tongue, so missed, as he leans down to nip the pinking edge of Mark's ear.

"So sentimental, Mark, to wear my clothes even when I was done with you," he teases a little louder, pulling his hand out from under Mark so he can grip his shoulders and grind into his ass. It feels a little weird, grinding against his own silky underwear, but Mark's ass is round and supple and perfect beneath the material and the weirdness is more than worth it.

"They were all that was...clean," Mark gasps, trying to defend his own indifference and failing terribly at it when his hips push up against Eduardo's drop and roll, ass warm and tight up against Eduardo's cock in his clothes and teasing as much as pleasing.

"You're a liar," Eduardo pants back; he's getting to that point he does sometimes where Mark is going to end up bruised and scratched and achingly full very soon, and every word Mark says just pushes him closer.

"Fuck you Wardo," Mark moans, as Eduardo licks over his ear and growls into it,  _querido_ ,  _sim_ ,  _belo_ , until Mark is actually shaking with want.

"Not quite," Eduardo says mockingly as he gets up, undoing himself and kicking off his clothes, everything but his shirt. It's apt, somehow, this little barrier they've both got left, and he'll lose it, of course, but not before Mark.

"Definitely fucking you tonight, Mark, but not without getting my underwear off you. Get up on your knees so I can and then I will."

Eduardo doesn't stop himself saying what he wants to—not the way he usually does—when Mark actually obeys. He pulls off the briefs so intentionally slow, murmuring,

"You fucking love me, Mark Zuckerberg, no matter what you say; you don't wear somebody's clothes if you don't actually care. You don't code for two days straight without moving and you don't skip breakfast because he'll be there and you don't mumble drunken apologies to the wrong fucking person because he's not around."

Mark doesn't deny it, doesn't even speak, just shakes his head a little, his curls bouncing even though they're getting damp with sweat, his back arching so that Eduardo can bare his ass as fast as possible. He shivers when Eduardo runs a palm over his ass, not even protesting the clear ownership in Eduardo's touch the way he usually does, and then inhales quickly when Eduardo tips him onto his back and crawls on top of him.

The touch of cock on cock is probably the most relief Eduardo has ever felt, fucking  _ever_ , when it comes to sex (because he's not going to dispute the way his shoulders relax every time he gets an A on an exam he studied weeks for, but that's different). Skin on skin, all slick and ridged and musky in the way that's somehow not gross when it's Mark—never with Mark.

Mark whines, his eyes falling shut, and Eduardo leans down to kiss him for the first time in more than a week with a shuddering sigh that falls onto Mark's tongue when he kisses back. Their tongues slide over and around each other's expertly and teeth nip and lips brush and Eduardo wants to sob with how much he's missed this, just this, even without the accompaniment of sex. Kissing Mark is like that moment when he sinks into his favorite slightly-too-big collared shirt or the feeling he gets when he eats the desserts his mother sometimes sneakily sends to him at Eliot; it's comfort and home and pure self-indulgent satisfaction and Eduardo knows no matter how many times Mark fucks up, he'll never be able to walk away from that.

"I love you," he says when he pulls away, always unable to stop the words tumbling out of his mouth after that sensation blankets him and Mark's lips make wet sounds dropping apart from his. Mark scoffs, disbelieving when it comes to both the concept of love and its applicability in relation to himself as usual, but Eduardo just nudges their lips together for one last second and whispers the words again, this time in Portuguese, and ignores Mark's reaction because  _he_  knows it's truth, and that's enough for now.

"C'mon Wardo, it's been a  _week_ ," Mark eventually says, the hint of a plea in the words, and Eduardo appeases him, slipping his hand along the rumpled mess of the blanket until it's under Mark's pillow and searching for the tube that's usually there, somewhat sticky and well-used. His hand curves around it and he smiles, because if Mark didn't move it, he really did have hope.

Pouring the watery, unpleasant liquid over his fingers, he throws the tube not too far away and then starts pressing, prodding, playing with the little cleft until it opens a little for him to get inside and then tickling and teasing Mark there. He wants to watch Mark wriggle and pant, and it doesn't take long until Mark can do nothing else but that.

Eduardo leans down and worries at Mark's neck with his teeth when Mark starts to spasm around his fingers, feeling how Mark's breath chokes off in his throat when he hits the mark, a place in Mark he's so intimate with he's  _tasted_  it (making Mark sob, scream, jerk, curse and babble) and rubbing as he bites, until Mark's body is so confused that his shallow exhales just cut off and stutter.

"I—Wardo—ah, I—" is all he's capable of, but it's all Eduardo needs to hear. He stops teasing and starts moving for real, opening Mark for him, setting the scene for when his body stops trembling and starts torturing him with the inevitable need to take Mark and hear him admit in his incoherent and desperate way—a manner Mark will only ever take when he's being fucked well—that he wanted it, wanted Eduardo, back.

Mark shakes and grabs at Eduardo and by the time he's managed three fingers, his stammers turn into actual words,  _fuck me fuck me fuck me_  like a mantra that will play in Eduardo's brain long after he's done it, through his bedtime routine and tomorrow's study session for biology and the first moments after he walks back into Kirkland with lunch for Mark.

Eduardo knows this and grins at the thought, even as his body goes through the motions of the drawer, the condom wrapper, the condom, the lube, the lift of Mark's fuzzy pale legs and the shift of his hips so he can aim true and make Mark the mess they both need him to be to get through another fucking stupid fight.

"Shit I love you," he says, again, and Mark's too keyed up to even care, just rubbing up against Eduardo on the curve of his ass and begging some more until Eduardo shoves in by inches.

The noises they make are like puzzle pieces, snapping together in a perfect symphony that echoes throughout Mark's tiny bedroom and probably will result in knowing looks from the rest of the guys tomorrow over lunch. Mark's legs flex around his hips and his chest heaves and Eduardo just wants him to lose it, that's all he wants. He scratches up Mark's chest until he cries out and bites a nipple before he lets himself go and starts to rock into Mark.

They fuck like they've had practice, because they've had tons. Eduardo knows where to move, when to move,  _how_  to move, to turn the notoriously eloquent Mark Zuckerberg into a gibbering and manic slut, and Mark knows just when to scream and clench and snag Eduardo's sides with his blunt nails to get Eduardo's rhythm to falter and his eyes to roll back. They mark each other everywhere because broken up an hour ago or not, they just  _have_ to, and they can, and everybody will expect it, everyone will know they belonged to each other that whole time.

" _Querido_ , " Eduardo pants against the bruise on Mark's jaw, frantic and uneven from where his teeth fell open with a loud groan when Mark dug his feet into his back, and Mark whimpers,

"Stop fucking...calling me that...when you...fuck, just—"

But Eduardo knows what he means, knows that when he starts crying out  _sorry fuck whatever it was I'm sorry_  through wet gasps as Eduardo grinds against his prostate how much he doesn't hate it, how much he missed it, knows that when he grabs Eduardo and kisses him and sobs into his mouth for real when he comes against the tightening muscles of Eduardo's stomach that everything he didn't say all week is there between them, in the sex-smelling air and the garbled mumbles he encourages Eduardo's orgasm with.

In the way he digs his fingers into the comforter and Eduardo's bicep and watches with half-lidded eyes as Eduardo jerks and shudders and grips onto hunks of skin and muscle as he spurts warmth into the condom and fights to stay upright so his long limbs don't crush the diminutive form of his lover beneath him.

They kiss messily, always less coordinated right after they come, and Eduardo hates how it feels when he has to pull out so he can collapse without Mark complaining of his heaviness, but his muscles protest too much for him to stay inside and he wants to focus on a proper kiss instead of trying.

He won't mention the shine on Mark's eyes and Mark won't mention the bruises that litter his skin, but they smile as Mark's tongue licks the sweat off his brow and Eduardo nuzzles his shoulder, then his jaw, then his temple, and so they won't need to.

"I guess you're going to leave another pair of underwear here," Mark grumbles playfully, not moving even though he'll insist under threat of  _death_  that he's not a cuddler because such things are asinine and waste his valuable time.

"Probably," Eduardo says good-naturedly, loosened by his orgasm and feeling magnanimous toward the one who gave it to him no matter how grumpy he might be.

"So I can wear those, next laundry day, then," Mark sounds like he smiled then, through a yawn, and Eduardo chuckles.

"As long as only I get to take them off you—whether your clothes get done or not."

"Weird, Wardo. But yeah. Whatever."

He's definitely smiling now. Eduardo can see it when he turns over to rest his cheek on Mark's hair. Neither of them've slept much, but they don't say that (not to each other, but Chris and Dustin get an earful); they just go to sleep the best right now, blanket thrown haphazardly and itchy over their skin and clothes piled on the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Fiction. Fan fiction. Based upon what was created by: fans of the Facebook story who turned it into a book, and the fans of that book who turned it into a movie, and the fans of that movie who turned it into one sexy man pining after an equally sexy man (or vice versa).
> 
> AN: Written for the Winter TSN-A-THON. A BILLION DOLLARS ISN’T COOL, YOU KNOW WHAT’S COOL? TEAM PARKER.


End file.
